The Story of An Hour

Oct 9

Written By Rachel

Reading Time: 5 Minutes

The image includes a customized book cover of "The Story of An Hour" by Kate Chopin. It features a vintage pocket watch and a small blue bird perched on top of a white rose, among other roses, with small leaves.

01. Blog

02. Summary

03. Short Story

04. Discussion Questions

Have you ever felt happiness that’s so overwhelming that you almost died from the sheer intensity of such joy?

That familiar rush of adrenaline that gets the heart going: pump, pump, pump. The sweaty palms, the clammy hands, the indescribable thrill that flows through your veins as this sensation catches you in a whirlwind of emotions.

Remember now?

No?

How about that lightheadedness that comes with being stricken by immense euphoria?

Like, say for example… having to reunite with an old friend after being away from each other for so long… or celebrating your birthday with the people you love and cherish… or getting that new haircut and absolutely rocking it… or maybe even a memory of some important event that completely changed the trajectory of your life for the better.

Either way, we’ve all experienced that rush of joy.

Unless you’ve never ever been happy before, but that’s a completely different story for next time.

So for now… Did I manage to jog that particular moment in time out of your memory? 😀

Good.

Now I want you to picture yourself going into cardiac arrest after that moment.

It… doesn’t sound very happy now, does it?

I’m sure you’ve heard cases of people going through intense overstimulation in the midst of a jovial occasion. There’s only so much emotions our body can handle, and unfortunately, happiness is even one of them.

We can never catch a break, can we?

I know you’re staring at the screen right now, thinking, there’s no way someone could die of a heart attack because they were too happy.

I looked it up and I can guarantee you that it is true! 😀

Along with the broken heart syndrome, there also exists a “happy trigger.” I dare you to look it up right now. I promise you will not be disappointed.

But if someone could die of a broken heart, what possible events could be considered a “happy trigger” enough to kill someone on the spot?

Common answers would be:

You’ve miraculously healed from an incurable disease and the extreme impact of the news shocks you to death.
Your partner has just surprised you with an extravagant proposal of your dreams and sends you immediately into overdrive.
You just found out that people can now breathe underwater and you can finally fulfill your dreams of living as a mermaid at sea, and the force of such an amazing discovery triggers an awful disturbance that stops your heart.
You realized that your husband is still alive after assuming he had died from an accident and when you saw him on your doorstep, it dawned on you that you had celebrated too early and before you could even comprehend the gravity of your situation… you pass out on the floor from the intense disbelief.

The last one was too oddly specific, and if you’ve read any of my previous blogs, you’d absolutely know where I’m going with this.

You’re right. The fourth answer is indeed our story for this post. 😅

We’ve heard about grieving widows, but what about women who actually want their husband dead?

It’s not as rare as you think, and they deserve a spotlight in the literary verse too.

“The Story of An Hour” introduced Mrs. Mallard as a rather sensitive woman in the 1800s. Tragic news of her husband’s death had reached her, and they had to break it to her gently to soften the blow, else her heart might fail her. Josephine, her sister, was with her while this occurred so that she could keep watch of her state as she absorbed the sudden report of her husband’s passing.

While the widow supposedly grieved in her room, she was suddenly stricken with the deep realization of her newfound freedom. Given how trapped she had felt inside the marriage, these discoveries gave rise to intense emotions of happiness.

We can sympathize with her, knowing the conventionality of being married at that period in history. It was implied to be forced upon her, and we can take that bit of information as a basis for our assumption that she most likely yearned to spread her wings free from the cages of marriage.

And boy, did she spread her wings.

A little too early, if you ask me.

Want the full details? 😉

You know the drill. Head below to read more!

"The Story of an Hour" begins with Louise Mallard learning of her husband Brently Mallard's death in a train accident. Because of her heart condition, her sister, Josephine, and her husband's friend, Richards, deliver the news gently. Initially, Louise is overcome with sadness and escapes to her room.
Isolated in her room, Louise's emotional state changes unexpectedly when she sits near an open window. Instead of grief, she experiences an unexpected sensation of relief and liberation. She realizes that her husband's death frees her from the constraints of marriage and allows her to live her life for herself. The thought gives her great delight, and she gently says, "Free! Body and soul free!"
However, her newly acquired autonomy is short-lived. As Louise descends the stairs, eager to begin her new life, the front door opens and Brently Mallard enters—alive and well, having been nowhere near the alleged accident. The shock of seeing him alive causes Louise to fall and die from a heart attack.
The doctors determined that she died of "the joy that kills," but it was apparent that her death was caused by the abrupt loss of her short-lived, cherished freedom.

“The Story of An Hour”

— Kate Chopin

Knowing that Mrs. Mallard was afflicted with a heart trouble, great care was taken to break to her as gently as possible the news of her husband's death.

It was her sister Josephine who told her, in broken sentences; veiled hints that revealed in half concealing. Her husband's friend Richards was there, too, near her. It was he who had been in the newspaper office when intelligence of the railroad disaster was received, with Brently Mallard's name leading the list of "killed." He had only taken the time to assure himself of its truth by a second telegram, and had hastened to forestall any less careful, less tender friend in bearing the sad message.

She did not hear the story as many women have heard the same, with a paralyzed inability to accept its significance. She wept at once, with sudden, wild abandonment, in her sister's arms. When the storm of grief had spent itself she went away to her room alone. She would have no one follow her.

There stood, facing the open window, a comfortable, roomy armchair. Into this she sank, pressed down by a physical exhaustion that haunted her body and seemed to reach into her soul.

She could see in the open square before her house the tops of trees that were all aquiver with the new spring life. The delicious breath of rain was in the air. In the street below a peddler was crying his wares. The notes of a distant song which someone was singing reached her faintly, and countless sparrows were twittering in the eaves.

There were patches of blue sky showing here and there through the clouds that had met and piled one above the other in the west facing her window.

She sat with her head thrown back upon the cushion of the chair, quite motionless, except when a sob came up into her throat and shook her, as a child who has cried itself to sleep continues to sob in its dreams.

She was young, with a fair, calm face, whose lines bespoke repression and even a certain strength. But now there was a dull stare in her eyes, whose gaze was fixed away off yonder on one of those patches of blue sky. It was not a glance of reflection, but rather indicated a suspension of intelligent thought.

There was something coming to her and she was waiting for it, fearfully. What was it? She did not know; it was too subtle and elusive to name. But she felt it, creeping out of the sky, reaching toward her through the sounds, the scents, the color that filled the air.

Now her bosom rose and fell tumultuously. She was beginning to recognize this thing that was approaching to possess her, and she was striving to beat it back with her will--as powerless as her two white slender hands would have been. When she abandoned herself a little whispered word escaped her slightly parted lips. She said it over and over under the breath: "free, free, free!" The vacant stare and the look of terror that had followed it went from her eyes. They stayed keen and bright. Her pulses beat fast, and the coursing blood warmed and relaxed every inch of her body.

She did not stop to ask if it were or were not a monstrous joy that held her. A clear and exalted perception enabled her to dismiss the suggestion as trivial. She knew that she would weep again when she saw the kind, tender hands folded in death; the face that had never looked save with love upon her, fixed and gray and dead. But she saw beyond that bitter moment a long procession of years to come that would belong to her absolutely. And she opened and spread her arms out to them in welcome.

There would be no one to live for during those coming years; she would live for herself. There would be no powerful will bending hers in that blind persistence with which men and women believe they have a right to impose a private will upon a fellow-creature. A kind intention or a cruel intention made the act seem no less a crime as she looked upon it in that brief moment of illumination.

And yet she had loved him--sometimes. Often she had not. What did it matter! What could love, the unsolved mystery, count for in the face of this possession of self-assertion which she suddenly recognized as the strongest impulse of her being!

"Free! Body and soul free!" she kept whispering.

Josephine was kneeling before the closed door with her lips to the keyhole, imploring for admission. "Louise, open the door! I beg; open the door--you will make yourself ill. What are you doing, Louise? For heaven's sake open the door."

"Go away. I am not making myself ill." No; she was drinking in a very elixir of life through that open window.

Her fancy was running riot along those days ahead of her. Spring days, and summer days, and all sorts of days that would be her own. She breathed a quick prayer that life might be long. It was only yesterday she had thought with a shudder that life might be long.

She arose at length and opened the door to her sister's importunities. There was a feverish triumph in her eyes, and she carried herself unwittingly like a goddess of Victory. She clasped her sister's waist, and together they descended the stairs. Richards stood waiting for them at the bottom.

Someone was opening the front door with a latchkey. It was Brently Mallard who entered, a little travel-stained, composedly carrying his grip-sack and umbrella. He had been far from the scene of the accident, and did not even know there had been one. He stood amazed at Josephine's piercing cry; at Richards' quick motion to screen him from the view of his wife.

When the doctors came they said she had died of heart disease--of the joy that kills.

Discussion Questions! (share your thoughts)

Louise Mallard's response to her husband's death is one of surprising excitement, as she imagines a life of independence. What does this indicate about social expectations about the roles of women in marriage around that specific time period?
The short story delicately examines marital power dynamics, demonstrating how even a loving spouse may be oppressive. How does "The Story of an Hour" address the power imbalances that arise in relationships?
Louise appears to be a devoted wife, but her reaction to her husband's death indicates hidden discontent. How does Chopin's narrative handle the appearance of contentment that women may project in the face of societal expectations?
The whole narrative takes place in an hour, yet it captures Louise's lifetime of awareness. What does this simplified timeline say about the process of self-realization and the transient nature of epiphanies?
Louise's death at the end of the narrative might be interpreted both literally and metaphorically. How may Chopin use death as a metaphor for rebirth or the ultimate liberation from societal constraints?